


PAS DE DEUX

by breadfruit



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: (Brief) Terminal Illness, Alternative Universe: Weird Shit and Typical Breadfruit Baffoonery, An Homage to the Horror Genre, Author Obviously Loved Hereditary, Blood and Gore, Blurred Romance, Cults, Dead Unnamed Lovers, Devotion Kink, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Shady Characters and Going Ons, Trust No Bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18667102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadfruit/pseuds/breadfruit
Summary: Taeyong is ill. Johnny promises healing. Sometimes, dead is better.Sometimes.





	PAS DE DEUX

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my gracious chickadees. I hail from the sematary, where qian kun himself hurled me over the mountain and buried me, right down that road over there. 
> 
> a fair warning that this work is very different from my works before. as stated in the tags, it is an homage to the horror genre of all medias. it can get a little heavy at times, so heed my warnings! 
> 
> there are twists and turns but i'm sure anyone who has watched hereditary understands the general idea of where this is going. this is a very personal work for me and i hope that you all are kind to my deviation of my usual writing. 
> 
> the title (and all chapter titles) are taken from the original sound track of peele's Us. 
> 
> do enjoy. though this chapter, in my opinion, is a bit slow.

\----

**beloved** ,

**i** **am** **unsure** if you will ever open the envelope with your name— the name I forever will associate with you anyway— in my hand. the hand youʻve held, kissed, and reddened with your own. i write to you with a blistering pain. not only is it the pain my physical body endures, the pain of something fighting so hard to live but is nonetheless destined to die, but the pain of what you have left at the pit of my ribs. i am in agony to admit that i still love you, you detestable pig. you barbaric form of art you hateful arrangment of space thati would not hesitate to deem wasted. you, of all the criminals in the world, deserve my love the least yet there you have it, gripped tight in the unrelenting claw of your appeal. yes, you still appeal to me, like the warm engine appeals to the stray cat. warm, but not merciful or living or even made of flesh. i always thought you were something beyond flesh. surely anything of flesh— even the taxidermy of a fox, would feel some sort of breeze. you never felt anything so i forced myself to not feel anything either. now here i am, feeling **everything**. 

\----

taeyongʻs hand cramped suddenly and heʻs frustrated. frustrated that not even his body can adhere to what his brain desperately wanted— to hate him. to hate the man he writes to now with uncharacteristically illegible writing and fatigue racking his body. it is worse enought that his heart refuses to conform to what would be best for all parties involved. if only every other part of his being other than the rational grey matter that throbbed with the irrationality of his writing letters that will never be sent could agree upon the notion to despise this man. if only.

he crumpled up the letter. 

ailment that crawled to death was supposed to be cathartic, he berated himself. it was supposed to be hazy and grey— seaside love making that slowly wrapped him in a blanket of comforting nothingness. this was not the case, he was soon discovering. his dying was sharp, crimson, unpredictable thorned ivy to stumble through. the more he struggled, the more he bled out. the more complacently he sank, the more likely he would be victim to the vultures, wolves, and flies hiding in the brush.

dying shouldnʻt be this hard. bitterness should not fill his lungs whenever he sees the palette of hydrangeas, peonies, and carnations he once slaved over so carefully in his backyard. there was no peace when he felt a breeze, no serenity in a bird’s song or good nightʻs sleep. all he felt was the restlessness of a human being struggling to tear out of a broken body and fly away on sweet wings.

“taeyongie” a honeyed voice coated his ears. he turned from the view over his writing desk, once overflowing with manuscripts of theatre reviews and journalistic inquiries of the relativity of dadaism in modern art, now infected with halfwritten letters, late night scribblings of feverish, passionate hate. “dinner’s ready. do you wanna eat here or?”

taeyong immediately straightened out. with a clearing of his throat, he tucked an ashy midnight lock behind his ear. “the table’s fine. i’ll be out soon. thanks, johnny.” he offered a smile over his shoulder and received one in turn before johnny retreated from the doorway.

if there was anything taeyong refused to relent to his sickness, it was his vanity. never did he neglect his skin routine, his habit of waking up early to scrub his face, apply light makeup, keep up the shade of hair he felt complimented him best at the time, or even get up to get dressed (with much difficulty) in an outfit suitable for company. he refused to wither away under shame of his looks, refused to lose the thing that undeniably awarded him with something to hide his social anxieties and awkwardness behind. his doe eyes and sharp bone structure— once dubbed “intimidating” by an editor, was a lovely mask to hide behind til he internally gathered his courage and words. gave him time to come off as the competent and intelligent renaissance man he prided himself in being during his time in the city.

it may have all been self-imagined, he humored while he touched up his lipgloss and slowly put on his cardigan, but the only person heʻs had to prove anything to in his illness is himself. there was the raging elephant of his personified ailment in the room that he ranted and raved to often, and it was just as difficult to convince as taeyong was stubborn.

the manic letter writing rated his emotional state shaky at best, but his joints were forgiving. no need for his wheelchair and his ego is still too tender to use a cane in his own home. so he emerged from his office and down the hall, hand sliding down the wall to keep himself steady on legs unused to independence. johnny waited for him at the dinner table, dim lighting caressed the room and two candles lit as centerpieces. there was fresh rosemary at the table encircling the candles that johnny had probably picked from the arrangement of f herbs that decorated the window above the sink.herbs that taeyong had planted before his illness had weighed him down to chairs and beds.

sometimes taeyong hated the kitchen. he hated his lack of hand in in the scrubbing, polishing, and sweeping of his own home. he was lucky to have johnny, but despised his need to have him around.

johnny is at one end of the table, quick to stand up to offer a hand to guide taeyong to his seat. taeyong held up his palm to signal that he can handle it himself, though his body disagreed with creaking and wobbling. he managed to reach his seat anyway, greeted with a hot meal.

“thank you for joining me tonight, mr. lee. our first course is a serving of spiced squash soup and lavender bread. a recipe all the way from pinterest’s more adventurous white mothers.”

“always a pleasure,” taeyong played along. “i can only imagine the existentialist housewife brooding that accompanied the recipe.” johnny laughed— lit up.

“you would have been able to write a review on it. the thesis was lacking, in my nonprofessional opinion.”

taeyong hummed as he took a careful spoonful of soup, always wary of manners and the grace associated with them. johnny watched him carefully. never did he eat before taeyong gave his consistent approval.

as if taeyong’s blissed concentration isn’t enough of a clear indication of silent praise, johnny tilted his head. “i’m not good with the cinematic anticipation, yong.”

“it’s lovely, as always. as if you needed me to tell you that.”

“well i don’t want to be fired because of a shitty bowl of soup,” he joked as he broke apart his own piece of bread.

“as if i’m paying you.” which taeyong insisted, nearly begged to do. johnny would not relent and continued his care of taeyong with payment in the form of needy company.

“in ways to fill my time, and with your always entertaining conversation, of course,” johnny chewed the inside of his cheek like he always did when he thought he was about to say something that might offend. “you should let me help you. if it’s difficult for you— you should let me help you with the little things, too.”

“you should let me give you a break,” taeyong is quick to respond with a fae like smile dancing upon his lips. johnny scoffed.

“i donʻt need a break. youʻre my friend. i love spending time with you.” friend, though thatʻs not what taeyong would have described johnny as before his illness. they were neighbors at first. johnny was handsome and kind— bringing over corn muffins and the occassional overflow of whatever lunch he whipped up for himself. taeyong was a recluse his best of days. he despised the suburban drab his lover had dragged him to, missed the bustle and excitement of the city and succumbed to an illness of another breed— an illness that kept him in bed while his lover worked and drank, left the house only to disocciate in fair trade grocery stores and be paraded around at company parties.

johnny began to knock on his door daily, drop off meals, and offer rides to the doctorʻs when taeyongʻs house emptied and his condition plunged into physical decay. johnny slept in the guest room on most nights, and perhaps if taeyong was not so terrified of rejection due to factors he could not control, he may have kept johnny company during the evenings that seem more lonely than the others.

“your friend whose linens you have to wash, meals you have to cook, carpets you have to vacuum—”

“all things i love to do if they’re for you,” johnny says so easily. taeyong envied the way johnny could release such tenderness, unabashed and without even a drop of hesitancy. it frazzled taeyong briefly although he should be accustomed to the heart on johnny’s sleeve. he clears his throat.

“half in love with easeful death? calling him soft names in many a mused rhyme?”

“you hate the romantics,” johnny pointed out matter-of-factly. his patience always seemed endless with taeyong’s refusal to waver and soften even under the most harmless intentions. and perhaps taeyong would be lying if he said that he didn’t test the boundaries. if he didn’t drop is emotional temperature, let his mind wander the way it wants to into numbing abyss and select mutism for johnny’s stay. a sick, narcissistic test of devotion that taeyong depended on for some sort of promise, although johnny was nothing like the man who taeyong wrote letters to.

“i always preferred the imagists.”

 

☨

 

taeyong remembered hearing (perhaps from a literary circle or cocktail party) that anne sexton and sylvia plath were lovers of the sun. he recalled the source connecting their fondness for the giant star by their shared melancholia. the depressed love the sun, he’s sure they were saying, eyeing his own golden complexion. taeyong’s skin bent easily to the whims of the seasons: paling next to the snowshoe hare and warming with the blooming tulips.

nowadays he fought that paling, detested both the encroaching peril that comes with passing winters and his skin’s likeness to colorless flesh he will inevitably melt into. “outside” was an adventure in itself, but he was always willing to take the trek. johnny never complained either, always packed snacks along with his well-worn camera. 

johnny wheeledhim under his favorite jacaranda tree of the nearly abandoned park. though they always seemed to be the only visitors, it was well-kept and lovely. it felt intimate, as if the park was kept a charming as it was just for them. johnny set up a picnic blanket— an old quilt taeyong was gifted by a great aunt, he thought— before he stretched his long arms above his head and gave a comically content sigh. “i should get back into calendar photography. i’d make millions from all your favorite outdoor ventures,” the taller announced.

“what made you stop? the calendar photography, I mean.” taeyong reached out for johnny, allowed him to sweep him out of the confines of his chair and gently onto the blanketed grass below him. a purple blossom landed in johnny’s freshly cut hair and taeyong carefully plucked it out, releasng it into the sweet breeze.

“it was too easy, you know? nature gave me so much material. it was so beautiful. it was like i couldn’t mess up. and photographing puppies wasn’t really stimulating my artistic senses.” taeyong could see it with the utmost clarity: johnny clumsily posing a bucket of beagles for the month of April.

“so you’re a masochist?”

johnny held up his camera to take a quick shot of taeyong half a second before taeyong could contort his face dramatically. “i’ll call this one: kinky under the jacaranda tree.”

“don’t label me a pervert in the name of art!”

“but in all honesty,” he chuckled, “i found myself drawn to something bigger than myself. something that’s difficult and toiling and worth every minute of it. something meaningful.”

“more meaningful than photographing a meadow for a dying medium of timekeeping?”

johnny looked at him— a second too long for it to not be thoughtful. “yeah.”

taeyong, desperately unused to the attention and tenderness johnny radiated, changed the subject. “i used to dance,” he blurted out. he regrets it as soon as johnny’s brow furrowed, head tilted slightly.

“i never knew that.”

“of course you didn’t. i never told you.” feeling the slightest echo of the pain from earlier this morning— a current premeditating the upcoming storm- taeyong began to massage his bony knees.

“do your joints hurt?” johnny moved to pull the bright orange pill bottle from taeyong’s bag. he hated the prescription. it flung him up in the air, made him float down to rocky, foggy shores as minutes stretched to the feel of hours and hours imploded to seconds.

“i’ll wait til we get back. just let me enjoy this for a bit, okay?” under the jacaranda tree, with his skin absorbing the sun and the blossoms falling onto his shoulders, he was not ill. so even if he was snippy about not crossing the streams of medication an his escapism, he couldn’t feel guilty about his insistence. it was self-care, as his soft spoken, eccentric therapist once contended. 

“sure,” johnny relented the pills back to his tote, albeit hesitantly. “i’d really like to see it some day.” the taller leans back onto his elbows, lying down almost completely.

“see what?”

“you. dance. i mean, you’re kind of an emotional and physical klutz, so i’d HAVE to see it to believe it, ya know?”

taeyong scoffed. sure, the analysis of taeyong’s ineptitude regarding what the world required of him was so spot on it was hilarious. however, the funniest part was johnny’s usage of “some day”, as if his sickness was one day going to get bored and climb out of his throat when it’s had enough.

“your optimism is underwhelming.”

“in case you haven’t gotten the memo,” taeyong began, even though johnny had gone to every doctor’s appointment since he was diagnosed. “i’m never gonna dance again. six months, remember?” an expiration date stamped on his charts by his ever patient physician. probably a generous one at that, he mused to himself as he felt his ever present pain make itself at home at every edge of his body. his joints first, taking his mobility and chaining him to his home. his organs were burning up between his blood and soon enough he’d be forced into a hyper sterile hospice without the ability to speak through his dense pain medication. the illness they could not name, only half heartedly predict the course of, would encompass him entirely soon enough.

he wondered far too frequently for his therapist’s recommendations when the day would come when he would lose his taste or the already loose grip of his ability to walk from room to room. he still remembered when he realized that he could not make trips outside independently, and the abyss he had fallen into under his blankets at the realization that he was a prisoner to his illness. as someone who prided himself in having complete control at all times, he had zero over his own body. he had been forced to surrender that day. battle after battle, it was clear that the war was not in his favor.

johnny pressed his lips together. he looked as if he was about to say something, physically biting at his tongue before the words tumbled out anyway. “you can. you don’t have to stay sick.”

“as if i don’t get this mortality dodging from the nurses—”

“i’m serious,” johnny cut in. he straightened out so he could level his face with taeyong’s. “there’s a way for you to get better.”

taeyong remained silent.

“i think i know a cure. it— it might take a bit. it’s a treatment. it might be a little intense. scary. but you’ll get better. what’s making you sick— we can fix it, you know. together. i’ll be with you every step of the way. you just have to agree to it.” taeyong stared and johnny reached for his frail hand, warming it with his own. “i know. this sounds like total bullshit but please,” johnny swallowed. “trust me.”

taeyong opened his mouth to speak, but no sound escaped, his eyes darted from the jacaranda tree to the loose stitching of the quilt to johnny’s broad shoulder, back to the warm chocolate of his eyes. taeyong’s lip quivered and he willed himself not to cry. he retracted his hand from the other’s caress. leaving his spindly fingers cold. lonely.

“fuck you,” taeyong spat. harsh and smoking. 

“yong, i—” reddening.

“take me home.” searing.

“i’m sorry—” singed.

“now, johnny.” burned. 

 

☨

 

holed up in his room for a number of hours he could not have counted, taeyong was not sure when he would stop crying. it was a cathartic, ugly release. it was an appropriate response, his therapist would say. it was human to mourn his past health and misplaced future. however, taeyong had decided from the very beginning that he would never offer the crystal of tears to his illness. the rot of his body was subject purely to the rage that he tucked just beneath his chest— ravenous just like the beast that clung to his blood.

but johnny. johnny could have any volume of taeyong’s tears.

never had such cruelty crashed around him. his diagnosis, though devastating, was never cruel. it was simply a consequence of being human. to call it cruel would give it more power, as if it had a choice to infect his body and it had consciously made that choice without permission. it was not like that. taeyong had fallen ill at the will of no one.

even the most apathetic, money hungry doctors had never told him that he’d “get better”. every visit. every prescription. every chart. they were all truthfully grim. there was little to no hope of overcoming it, only to keep it leashed. no one had ever injected him with such venom. and of all people, johnny had.

it hurt.

sniffling and wiping stubbornly at his tears, taeyong managed to scoot himself to the edge of his mattress. he reached over, despite the objection of his limbs, to feel for the worn shoebox encased with a fine blanket of dust. it made him wince. it always did to come face to face with with the corpse of his late neat freak habits. 

once he had gingerly placed the box near his pillow, he wasted no time before digging through its contents. certificates of achievement, a ballet flat, childhood photos, a lock of his mother’s hair, birthday cards. all accompanied by the aging cologne of years ago. it was the first high end item he had bought in the city after one of his work friends swore by the value of a signature scent. now it only served to remind him of his days of profound journalism, never ending adventure, and relentless art.

taeyong breathed the scent in. 

at the bottom of the box was an old newspaper article. taeyong stared, sure that he had thrown it out in a fit of something akin to guilt months ago. though now that he thought about it, there was a chance that he talked himself out of it, clutched it to his chest before tucking it under the rest of his memories in shame. nonetheless, there it was. he unfolded the paper.

\----

FATALITY IN LAKE CARRIE CAR ACCIDENT

POLICE REPORT THAT A FATAL CAR ACCIDENT OCCURRED IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS OF THE 24TH. A PASSING TRUCK DRIVER CONTACTED 911 AT 5:26 AM AFTER SPOTTING A CAR SINKING INTO THE SOUTH END OF LAKE CARRIE. WHEN EMERGENCY SERVICES ARRIVED THE DRIVER OF THE VEHICLE, WHO WAS THE ONLY OCCUPANT,HAD BEEN DECEASED FOR NEARLY TWO HOURS. THE OFFICIAL CAUSE OF DEATH IS DROWNING.POLICE SUSPECT THAT THE DRIVER HAD ATTEMPTED TO EVADE A CROSSING DEER OR PEDESTRIAN WHEN HE LOST CONTROL OF HIS VEHICLE AND SWERVED OFF THE ROAD INTO THE BODY OF WATER. POLICE ARE CAUTIONING DRIVERS TO DRIVE WITHIN LEGAL LIMITS AND KEEP THEIR ATTENTION ON THE ROAD WHILE BEHIND THE WHEEL. PEDESTRIANS ARE ALSO CAUTIONED TO STAY NEAR WELL-LIT AREAS AND WEAR CLOTHING OR TO CARRY LIGHTING DEVICES THAT DRIVERS CAN EASILY SPOT IN THE DARK TO AVOID FUTURE COLLISIONS. THE COUNTY IS LOOKING INTO CONSTRUCTING MORE STREET LAMPS ON THAT PARTICULAR STRETCH OF ROAD.

\----

_it’s_ _like_ _you_ _just_ _laid_ _down_ _and_ _let_ _me_ _kill_ _you_.

 

taeyong ripped the article in two, four, eight, what seemed to be hundreds of pieces by the time his arms tired. he took his pillow and screamed into it.he shut the box, shoved it under his mattress, and tried not to tear his own skin off. rejuvenated by the metallic rage coiling at the back of his teeth, he carelessly stumbled to johnny’s room, clutched onto the wall to keep himself upright. 

“yong?” johnny’s sleep heavy voice carried through the hallway. “are you okay?” taeyong could hear his shuffling and saw light peak out from under the guest bedroom doorway before his ever familiar form made its way into the hall. “jesus christ, yong.”

taeyong was in johnny’s arms in a matter of seconds. “what’s the matter? do you need an ambulance?” his bare chest was undeniably warm and taeyong couldn’t help but lean into it.

“were you lying?” when he reached his arms for johnny’s shoulders, the taller leans down to fully carry taeyong’s weight. there’s a silence as they go to the guest bedroom. it’s not a confused silence, but a contemplative one, and johnny is sure to sit taeyong down on the bed and look him in the eyes before he responded.

“i would never. not to you.”

“then why not bring it up sooner?”

“i didn’t know if you were ready to— to get better.”

a laugh rippled from taeyong’s throat. bittersweet but too exhausted to be angry. 

“i didn’t mean to hurt you. and you know i take your health so, so seriously. you need to be ready to heal. and you need to trust me.” johnny carefully thumbed at the dried path of tears that stained taeyong’s cheek. 

“i want to do it. i’m ready now,” he refused to shy away from johnny’s stare. i don’t want to lie there and let it kill me, he chanted, prayed, begged, internally.

johnny’s face had softened considerably but taeyong swore he could see something terribly alive and burning beneath his eyes. something he had not seen before but stunned him in a way he was used to with johnny. “i’m glad. i’ll tell you more tomorrow. but you need sleep now.”

“and i’m sorry. for getting so angry, for lashing out at you—”

“you don’t have to apologize, yong. i get it. i could have been a little more sensitive on the uptake.”

“i do. because i would have been angry no matter how you said it. so i am sorry, johnny. it was a lot of pent up emotion redirected towards— towards you.”

johnny smiled. “then i forgive you. i always will.”

if he had not remembered the shredded newspaper article in his bedroom, he might have asked johnny if he could stay. if they could sleep— side by side, sharing warmth as johnny occupied his space without fear of contamination or disgust of another strain. but the words FATALITY IN LAKE CARRIE CAR ACCIDENT breathed in his ear. so he let johnny guide him back to his room, tuck him in with a palm of pain medication and a sleep aide. johnny kissed his forehead and left his bedside lamp on in case taeyong had wanted to read for a bit.

“tomorrow?” taeyong had to ask.

“tomorrow.” it was so sure, the most unwavering promise he had ever been gifted. johnny smoothed taeyong’s hair before he retreated, but did not fail to shoot a wink over his shoulder before leaving. he always did, to either make taeyong giggle or roll his eyes. this time he giggled, if not from the giddiness of the chance of a cure then from the childish joy of a relationship mended anew.

that night, taeyong dreamed. he was dancing in a studio. his studio, his dream implied. surrounded by mirrors, he sweat, kicked his heels up, flexed and twisted and extended himself freely. without the weight of his illness tied to his heels and wrists, he nearly flew. but when he glanced at the studio mirrors in the midst of his dance, his reflection stared back at him. unmoving.

he woke up.

exhaustion, as if he had really been dancing, wracked his body. a thin layer of sweat glazed his forehead as he struggled to catch his breath. it was nearly morning, humming light peaked through his blinds and dusted his room a subdued sapphire.

the newspaper article was placed on his dresser, in one piece.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: guavatoast  
> curiouscat: strawberrydough 
> 
> thank you for reading the first chapter of this primal hallucinatory nightmare. do leave feedback or ferociously attack me on social media. anyone who can guess all my horror references throughout gets a cookie!


End file.
